A Road Not Taken
by MBurris
Summary: Some story elements really unbalance the plot. In Sixth year, Harry comes across another path that just cries out for exploitation. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** All characters, locations, plot holes, and possible munchkinry made available by the kind forbearance of JK Rowling, who retains ownership.

 **The Road Not Taken**

Harry was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, gazing into the fireplace. It was lit, even though the temperature in early September was not cold enough to warrant additional heat; the fireplace had obviously been spelled to only contribute ambiance. It helped a little, as Harry was lost in his thoughts.

Slughorn's introductory class was a real … eye-opener.

Neville plopped into the cushion next to Harry – the common room was crowded with younger students – first, second, and third years, mostly – that hadn't gotten into the swing of the school year yet. They were loud, and Neville had to raise his voice to be heard over the ambient babble. "How's it going?"

Harry turned to Neville slowly. "I'm not sure yet. I'm still wondering about Slughorn's class."

"That was something, wasn't it!" Neville showed his admiration for the potions master. "Those potions he showed were really hard ones – you can't even _buy_ most of them, no matter _how_ rich you are!"

"So you know about those potions?"

Neville shrugged. "A little. Most kids that grew up in the magical world learn about the miracle potions."

"What?" Harry had obviously never learned that term.

"Miracle potions," Neville repeated. "The potions that do things that no other magic can do – that's what Professor Slughorn showed us. The crowning peak of potion achievements. Amortentia creates love; all other potions can only create lust."

"I thought he said that it only creates infatuation?"

"He has to say that. Real love doesn't fade, and the effects of the potion only last for about three weeks. Since it wears off, and it's a real intense feeling of love, it's classified as infatuation." Harry and Neville shrugged at each other, because for teen boys, they didn't really see the difference.

"Draught of Living Death is like being petrified, but your body is protected from even the damage that can reach petrified people. Only one potion can bring you back – there's a few stories about caves full of warriors that are awaiting the potion from their leaders, and the leaders are gone, and nobody knows the exact potion keyed to bring them back to life. They will just stand there, unmoving, unaging, unknowing, until the world ends, I guess. Maybe even beyond."

Neville paused for breath and continued. "Polyjuice potion can change your body so completely that no identity tests ever show your true form. For one hour, you can be anyone else." Harry smirked to himself. "Some magical houses have a system, where if the Lord gets captured or kidnapped, somebody uses Polyjuice to change into the Lord and sire an heir, so the future of the House is assured." Harry mused a little on Hermione's mishap with cat hair five years ago. She might not have ever quite recovered completely, as she had been heard to purr in quiet, contented moments.

"The Potion of Liquid Luck changes the distribution of chance in the universe. But fate can only be stretched so far; if you take too much, you end up with an overabundance of bad luck that can't be fixed … and it might be permanent. A few wanna-be Dark Lords were stopped by giving them _more_."

Harry shuddered at the thought of only bad luck for the rest of his life. _His_ bad luck. _Brrr_.

"Veritaserum," Neville went on, "compels you to tell the truth. And because it's magic, you can't tell an untruth even if that's what you believe is the truth. My great-uncle told me that's how the Unspeakables work," he added. "Once a month, the experts get dosed with Veritaserum and then are interrogated by other experts. That's how they come up with new rituals, charms, runes, and potions without so much danger. He said, 'The real trick is knowing what questions to ask. Answers are _easy_.'"

"Huh," mused Harry. A thought struck him. "Do the potions work on other species?"

"I would think so," frowned Neville. "What do you mean?"

"Specifically," Harry went on with his eyes on the small vial in his hand, "does Liquid Luck work on House Elves?"

-o-

"Dobby answers the Great Harry Potter!"

"Dobby, I have something in mind for you to do, but it is against the law. How do you feel about doing things against the law?"

The little munchkin was unabashed. "Wizardy law can not stop Dobby from doing what The Great Harry Potter asks!"

"What about if other house elves want to stop you?"

Dobby stopped bouncing quite so frenetically. "Dobby will still do what the Great Harry Potter Sir says!"

Harry decided to offer an escape clause. "Dobby, take a look at this potion. It is Felix Felicis, the Liquid Luck potion. I want you to take this potion," Harry trailed off as Dobby was shaking his head slowly, backing away with his hands upraised.

"Dobby, can you please tell me why you don't want to do this?"

Dobby stopped retreating, but still was hesitant. "Wizardy luck potion hurts house elfs, Great Master Sir. Sometimes," Dobby's voice dropped to a whisper, "Potions make house elfs go boom, sir. Making lots of mess for cleanings."

Harry's eyebrows levitated at the explanation. "Huh. I didn't know that. Okay, then Dobby, the main thing is that there is more of this potion in this castle, and in the world. I want you to find as much of it as you can, and steal it all for me."

A relieved Dobby nodded in his usual fashion. "Dobby does! Great Master Harry Potter Sir will have all splody potion Dobby can finds!"

-o-

Three days later, Dobby reported back with his results: apparently, Voldemort wanted intangible support for his planned operations, and had quite a bit of Felix Felicis in his supplies. All was now in Dobby's hands.

And Dobby had a devious mind of his own. The purloined supplies had been replaced with a house elf concoction – not a potion, oh no, that was for Wizardy folks – that produced a bit of an _anti_ -luck effect in humans. _And_ explosive diarrhea. _Wizardy folks go boom, too._

Now Harry had to adjust his ideas. What was he going to do with 862 doses of the universe-altering stuff?

Drink one now, obviously …

**WHOOM**

Harry's mind almost completely overloaded with possibilities and ideas. When the white light of chaos had receded, he knew what he needed to do.

"Hey Neville, I've got some plans. You want in?"

-o-

Harry looked at his hand, curiously. He had taken a basic transfiguration as far as he could stretch it – from matchstick to needle to _essence of sharpness_. Now, the edge of his hand, which had been holding the needle, was sharp enough to cut parchment. And his left eyebrow, when he had absent mindedly adjusted his glasses.

 _Hunh_. _Weird_.

-o-

Neville had just completely taken apart the training dummies provided by the Room of Requirement. At first, the basilisk venom within the Sword of Gryffindor had made every hit fatal, but as he got used to the silver blade in his hand, he found there was a feeling of … eagerness. As if the blade was reaching out. Putting a damper on this made the sword merely … impossibly sharp, unnaturally light, and immediately lethal in a completely different way.

 _Hunh_. _Weird_.

-o-

In the early weeks of spring, Neville and Harry's self-training had taken an unusual turn – they practiced noticing their impulses, and acting on them, sometimes with a potion assist. And now in late May, with the news that Voldemort was approaching Hogwarts castle backed by a small army, the two young men were ready, right at the time they were needed.

Both had stopped noticing coincidences, and were taking it for granted. Perhaps that would come back to bite them, but as long as they won today, neither cared.

Harry was dressed in casual non-wizarding outfit, with worn and faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt that was once black, and now barely qualified as dark gray. His dragon-hide boots had rounded toes and they glinted slightly in the low light of the room, matching his belt and the bandolier he sported over his right shoulder. In the bandolier were more than a double handful of potion vials, each with a single dose of various colored liquids.

If Harry was dressed no better than a Muggle construction worker, Neville was the Wizarding counterpart; worn robes unfastened over excessively worn trousers and tunic, the inner pockets of the robe clinking softly. His expression didn't mirror Harry's though, as his expression was cold and hard. Neville pulled out a single outsized potion vial, and Harry did the same. Both potions were of the most intense gold, shifting and jumping even though neither of the boys exhibited a single tremor.

Harry uncorked his vial and raised it to his lips, throwing it back with confidence and verve. Neville was just a hair ahead of him. Neville spoke first, the words just coming to the forefront of his mind.

"No doubts."

"No hesitation." Harry's response was instinctive, and reflexive.

"No mercy." Neville was deadly serious about this line.

"No prisoners." Harry sported a rakish grin that boded … something: it could either go very, very badly, in which case Harry started off looking like a head case, or it would be insanely right, in which case Harry … also looked like a head case. But a very, very _dangerously_ competent one. Neville slowly responded with a smile that had no humor, and hinted at the joyous infliction of pain.

Voldemort was approaching the gates, and neither of them had a plan. A double-dose of Felix Felicis would do that to a bloke. They didn't need one.

The Chosen Ones were … going to wing it.

But before they left the Gryffindor common room, Harry had an idea. "Fawkes!" Harry called.

A bright burst of heatless golden flames appeared four feet before Harry's face, and as the flames flickered away, it showed the phoenix hovering in the air before him.

Harry asked, "So, Fawkes – does Liquid Luck work on a phoenix?"

A raucous laugh disguised as birdsong flowed through the room. The glint in the eyes of the phoenix grew martial and firm.

"Exactly," agreed the human. Harry's grin grew sharper. "Then here you go, friend." He opened another golden vial – properly sized, this time, and poured it into Fawkes' waiting gullet. "Go and do what you will, but remember – now is not the time to be careful."

The phoenix left the way he arrived.

Harry left as well, palming a small piece of wood that had fallen from the pile of firewood by the fireplace. He wasn't sure why, but when you're going to be lucky later, sometimes you have to luckily prepare now. Harry just went with it.

Neville had ghosted out the door while Harry was talking to the flaming avian, and Harry hurried to catch up; the fun might be over before he arrived, otherwise. He didn't want to miss out.

-o-

Voldemort had selected a fine spring morning to make his attack on Hogwarts, with the ground covered with a thick fog up to a height of about ten feet. It concealed his forces well, and allowed the mass of his forces to penetrate the grounds of Hogwarts until they were within a bow's shot of the castle walls.

Voldemort, while educated and intelligent, was not, however, experienced at all things he attempted. The fog did conceal the forces, but the movement of the army showed in the swirls and flow of the fog, and that was easily seen from the castle parapets.

High above the ground, Harry and Neville watched the swirls move through the fog, and knew where the Death Eaters had concentrated. And where they had spread out.

Harry and Neville glanced at each other, and disappeared from the parapets. Neville was stalking through the halls, intent on his path and his mission, students bodily bouncing off him as he hurriedly strode though the students. Harry was headed in the opposite direction, taking flying steps off the walls, diving through knots of children, sliding under legs and around corners. He didn't make contact with anyone, but the chaos he left in his wake was no less than his friend's.

Neville emerged from the greenhouse area, eyes darting to and fro. He switched his wand to his left hand, and without a sound, the Sword of Gryffindor appeared in his right. A shape was darkening into recognizability through the fog; Neville sent a casual piercing curse from his hip; the shape dropped without a sound. More shapes materialized as they grew nearer – more shapes were left on the ground as Neville became an unstoppable force of death.

Neville easily deflected spells headed his way with Sword and shield spell, with an ease and negligence that made witnesses pick their jaws up off the ground. He picked out a victim from the crowd, and then rapidly strode toward them, wand spitting spells and sword swinging until the victim succumbed. Nothing could make this grim figure pause or turn aside, and the Death Eaters began to edge away from the young man rather than attack.

Harry emerged from the other size of the castle, facing the quidditch pitch. His wand was strapped to his right forearm, not disillusioned, but camouflaged so that it wouldn't be easily recognized. His left hand was held with his fingers close together; Harry still didn't have a good handle on the transfiguration that coated his hand with a blade so sharp it couldn't be made with a substance, and it made him a little wary.

The fog was a little lighter on this side of the castle, and Harry was able to see lone Death Eaters from twenty feet away. The odd pulsing in his veins grew stronger, and Harry gave himself over to the impulses of the golden potion. While Longbottom was a stone-cold BAMF and had made Chance his _bitch_ , Harry …

… _danced_.

Step on the back of the bad guy, jump forward, step on a shoulder, _diffindo_ , twist, duck, dive, slice with his left hand, _confringo,_ flip, …

Harry was one with the flow of Fate and Chance, twisting his body in a beautiful choreography that was completely unplanned and perfectly done. Harry felt a laugh of irrepressible joy bubble up from his throat.

Potter, the number one enemy of The Dark Lord, writhed and flew through his mortal enemies, swaying aside from each spell, twisting _just so_ to avoid that axe blade, letting his enemies catch what other enemies have thrown.

 _With his eyes closed._

-o-

Dumbledore's phoenix was conspicuously absent from the conflict. When later, Longbottom muttered an observation on that, Potter muttered back, "Lucky!", and both warriors laughed, somewhat bitterly.

-o-

Harry bounced and weaved from opponent to opponent, killing only those that other Death Eaters hadn't touched. Neville was surrounded by a fleeing circle of Voldemort's followers; they were more scared of him than of their Master. Only once had he hesitated from latching onto his next target, when he backtracked to spit on the corpse of a death eater that had long, black, stringy, matted hair. And eventually, Harry, Neville, and Tom Riddle met in the middle of a blood-soaked field of dying followers.

Voldemort face Harry and began with, "You pathetic …" and had to stop talking to avoid a spell cast by Neville. He turned to see who was attacking him and sneered, "Another blood …" but had to leave off to pay attention to Harry's attack. Again, Riddle tried to begin his customary trash-talk, but neither of the Chosen Ones were listening, and Tom's anger rose quickly at not being able to proclaim his grand supremacy. Neville and Harry did not trade off attacks, but randomly interrupted Tom the moment he drew breath for a rant. And at random other times, too, because … well, it may have had a _tactical_ benefit, but Felix Felicis dictated, and the Chosen Ones obeyed.

And Tom, outnumbered and annoyed beyond anything he ever knew, was pressed closer and closer by his foes. Eventually, he leaned back to avoid a sword cut, which ran his spine right into Harry's very sharp left hand. Even with a magically animated body, internal structure matters, and Tom Riddle collapsed at the feet of his opponents.

Harry silently picked up the fallen wand, and flipped it to Neville, who snapped it. He unceremoniously dropped the pieces on the body. Which was attempting to speak without breath.

They both walked away into the fog, leaving only cooling blood and piles of corpses behind.

And one severed head that quickly succumbed to the oncoming darkness.

-o-

"Mr. Potter, why did you not seek the assistance of your friends in this fight?" The Headmaster had confronted Harry and Neville at their evening meal, with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger behind him.

Harry glanced at Neville, and Neville answered, giving Harry time to chew and swallow. "We did, Headmaster."

"Now, Neville …" At Neville's flat look, Albus corrected himself to, "Mr. Longbottom, neither Mr. Weasley nor Miss Granger had any idea that either of you …"

"Precisely, Albus," interrupted Harry. "Both of those people were my friends last year. They are not my friends this year." Harry turned back to his plate.

Ron's face began turning red, and Hermione darted around Albus to confront Harry. "Honestly, Harry, since when …"

Harry pinned her with a flat stare – Neville was taking the opportunity to eat while Harry occupied their attention. "The last time I spent with you socially was in September, and you decided to read me the riot act because I was achieving something without your approval. Since then, I have actively avoided you, and you haven't noticed until now." He turned to Neville. "Could you get me some juice, please? I think we could use some."

Neville's eyebrows rose in a question, but Harry firmly nodded. Neville turned to fill his and Harry's cups while Ron, face flush with emotion (anger, probably, as he didn't really deal with any finer distinctions), chose this moment to butt in. "Mate, you really …"

Harry cut him off. "We have never been mates. When you came to Hogwarts, you wanted someone to pull you through classes," Harry leaned his head indicating Hermione, "and someone to make you famous. I have no idea what you do for her, but you do nothing for me." The listening crowd laughed at this, and Ron retreated. Hermione was pale and evaluating Ron with narrowed eyes.

Dumbledore stepped into the conversation again. "My boy, you should never push away your friends, for in the dark times to come …"

Harry's interruption was in a flat, uncompromising tone. "I have kept my friends. What I haven't kept is your fan club. Go _away_." Harry's shoo-ing motion included the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's expression became quite stern. "As your magical guardian, Harry, I must insist."

Neville handed Harry his cup, and Harry took a long drink. Smirking, he said, "Prove it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I do not believe you are my guardian, magical or otherwise," declared Harry.

"I assure you, young Harry, that I have been given your guardianship in the Magical world by the Wizengamot."

"Then you should have no issues with making a magical vow to that effect." Harry's voice and gaze was challenging.

"I have no need. I can easily provide you with …"

"… documents that can easily be faked," interrupted Harry. "The only thing that I would accept is an oath, sworn on your magic, that you are my legal and rightful guardian."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, and the old man shrugged. "If that is what you wish, my boy. And after, you will accede and follow my directions for the Greater Good."

Harry mirrored the shrug. "If you are my legal and rightful guardian, then, yes."

Albus Dumbledore straightened to his full height, withdrew his wand, and intoned, "On my magic, I do so swear that I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, am the legal and rightful guardian of Harry Potter." There was a bright flash, and then the Headmaster dropped to one knee, hissing in pain.

Harry smirked. "I know that you bypassed my parent's wills, Albus, so there is no way you could be my rightful guardian, no matter what tricks you pulled to legally have that power transferred to you. Congratulations, you've been outthought by a sixth year. And you're a squib."

Neville and Harry arose from the table, and the old man, getting older faster than the passing minutes would suggest, found his eye drawn to the empty potion vial on its side between their plates. Each type of potion was required to have a unique vial design, so that they could be distinguished by touch, but Albus didn't remember what this shape meant.

His eyesight dimmed slowly, and became quite blurry; his breath became more difficult to come by. Wheezing was apparently the order of the day, now.

Harry leaned over and said softly, "And when you're gone, I will tell everyone about how you could not be trusted, how your life and career and legend are built around betrayal. You screwed with our lives; we're ending your life and your legacy." He straightened up.

Neville took his place only to whisper, "So long, you bastard."

Albus did not see Neville and Harry leave, his only concern being to summon the strength to keep his eyelids open.

He failed.


End file.
